Laundry Day
by pineapplefan
Summary: "I looked forward to laundry days. It was always just you and me, and it was fun. And we were safe and it was normal. I think I craved that." [Set between episodes 1.04 Phantom Traveler and 1.05 Bloody Mary].


Dean sat in the driver's seat of the Impala, staring at the door to their motel room.

He was making a bet with himself. Sam was either still sleeping or he was torturing himself looking for leads on Dad's whereabouts or Jessica's killer.

And considering that Sam barely slept for more than an hour at a time these days, Dean's money was on the latter.

Either way, loser had to do the laundry.

With a sigh, Dean grabbed the take-out bags sitting on the passenger seat and kicked open the door. He made sure to plaster on a cheerful smile before entering the room.

He opened the door quietly, not wanting to disturb his brother given the off-chance that he actually _was_ still asleep.

As predicted, Sam's bed was empty.

But so was the table – the one Dean expected his brother to be sitting at, pouring over his laptop.

Faintly, Dean could hear the shower running beyond the bathroom door. He dropped the take-out bags on the table and crossed the room. He nudged the bathroom door open slightly so he could poke his head in.

"Yo, Sammy! Grub's up!"

Sam shut the water off and it was quiet for a few beats. And then: "Yeah. Okay. Be right out."

Dean heard the roughness in his brother's voice and wondered vaguely if he'd been crying. Sam had been doing a lot of that lately. Crying.

Of course, Dean wasn't supposed to know that. Sam tried to hide it.

Sometimes Dean would wake up to his brother's hitched breath and sniffles during the night. Other times, Sam would go for an impromptu run, only to return with puffy eyes and a wrecked voice.

Dean lingered at the door for a couple more seconds before tapping on the doorframe and turning around to face the motel room.

He had just finished pulling the breakfast wraps out of the bags when Sam emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist. Dean still hadn't gotten used to how much muscle his brother had put on during his four years at college. He definitely wasn't the skinny, lanky kid he remembered.

"Coffee and a veggie omelet wrap with your name on it," Dean announced, holding the items up proudly.

"Thanks," Sam acknowledged as he pulled on the same jeans he'd been wearing for the past five days.

"Dude, we need to get you another pair of pants," Dean said.

Sam snorted softly. "Yeah, I know." He grabbed a dirty, black T-shirt and pulled that on too.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "What's the point of taking a shower if you're just going to wear the same smelly clothes every day?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm out of clean ones."

Dean grimaced a little on the inside. Most of Sam's clothes had been burned in the fire. He could get by with wearing some of Dean's shirts, but pants were a different story.

"Good thing it's laundry day, then," Dean said with a smirk.

Sam took a seat across from Dean at the table and reached for his laptop. "We're not hitting the road? I thought Dad sent you coordinates."

"He did. Toledo, Ohio. But housekeeping calls. I'm out of boxers, dude. And Baby needs some maintenance."

"Okay, well, we should probably make a supply run too – I just took the last of the Tylenol," Sam said as he opened his laptop.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Headache?"

"Yeah."

Dean took a big bite out of his wrap. "You're not sleeping enough. That's why," he theorized with his mouth full. "You should rest up today. I'll take care of the errands."

"No, I want to come," Sam said quickly, looking over the top of his his laptop screen.

"Why?"

"I just do, okay?" Sam put on the defensive. He said, "I don't want to be stuck in the motel all day." But what Dean heard was: _I don't want to be alone._

"Okay, fine," Dean relented with a sigh. He reached across and closed Sam's laptop, then nodded at his untouched wrap. "Eat your food."

"Dean, c'mon, don't be a jerk! I was just checking…" Sam started to pull the laptop screen back up again, but Dean grabbed the computer from him before he could.

"I know what you were checking, Sam, and you need to quit torturing yourself. We're taking a day off of business today. Got it?"

Sam looked like he wanted to protest but held his tongue and mumbled, "Got it." He unwrapped his wrap and started eating.

Dean tried to ignore the fact that he left over half of it uneaten.

xxx

If Dean was asked about his top accomplishments in life, his incredible ability to remove blood stains and supernatural guts from clothes _probably_ wouldn't make the list.

But it'd be close.

The trick was to mix some water with meat tenderizer to make a paste, slap some of it on the stain and let it rest for twenty minutes. Then it all just washed right on out with the rest.

Sam thought he was crazy.

"I don't know why you even bother," he said, leaning against a dryer while Dean rubbed his concoction over a particularly deep red spot on one of his favorite flannel shirts. "That's your favorite hunting shirt. It's just going to get gore all over it again."

"It's simple really," Dean responded, knowing full well he'd given this speech to his brother before. "Having clean clothes makes us look good. And when we look good, we feel good. And when we feel good, we hunt good."

"And that's all that really matters, isn't it?" Sam said grumpily, so softly that Dean wasn't sure he was meant to hear it.

He raised an eyebrow at his brother. "You have something you want to say?" he inquired, seriously curious about the off-hand, under-the-breath comments that Sam had been making lately.

Sam hesitated, but ultimately shook his head.

And Dean tried to remind himself that Sam had been through a lot in the past month. He was sleep-deprived, still grieving, and he was back to living the life he'd so desperately tried to escape.

If anybody was allowed to be cranky, it was Sam.

"Well, while we wait for that to set—" Dean tossed the treated clothes aside and reached into his back pocket, "—what do you say we play ourselves a few hands of poker?"

He pulled out a deck of cards and a sense of relief spread over him when Sam's lips quirked into a smile. He had a feeling that might work.

"You're on!"

xxx

Growing up, all the way up until Sam left for Stanford, it was kind of a tradition to play cards at the Laundromat. Over the years, the games had evolved from go fish, to kings in the corner, to slap jack, to blackjack, and now they had arrived on poker.

"You've gotten really good at this," Sam commented, as he lost another hand.

Dean huffed a laugh. "Yeah, well, gotta pay the bills somehow."

Last load in the dryer, they were sitting cross-legged on the wide bench between aisles of machines. Sam frowned at his brother. "You've been playing for money?"

Dean shrugged as he dealt the next hand. "Every so often. Pool gets boring after a while, you know?"

A forlorn, almost pitying, expression swept over Sam's face.

"What's that look for?"

Sam faltered. "I dunno," he said, lifting a hand to massage his forehead. "I guess I took having a steady paycheck in college for granted. I forgot what it's like… you know, to be us."

"You had a job at Stanford?"

"Well, yeah. I kind of had to. I mean, I had a full-ride and everything, but that only covered tuition and books. I still had to come up with rent and money for food."

Dean couldn't believe he hadn't thought of that. If he had, he would've sent some cash Sam's way during those four long years.

He cleared his throat gruffly. "So what'd you do?"

"I worked in the food court at the rec center. If I ever have to make one more smoothie…"

"Oh, you poor working man," Dean said with an eye roll. He reached across their game to ruffle Sam's hair, than shoved the kid's head in a playful gesture.

He regretted it immediately when Sam winced at the motion.

"Shit," he cursed. "Sorry, man. Your head still bothering you?"

"No, it's… I'm fine," Sam insisted. He ran a hand through his hair to try and get it back to where it was before Dean messed it up. "By the way…" he added, as he laid his cards down on the table. "Read 'em and weep. Full house."

Dean smirked. "That's cute, Sammy, really." He laid his own cards down and let Sam take it in, just as the timer to the dryer buzzed.

"Uh, Dean, I'm pretty sure a full house beats a flush…"

"Read 'em again, College Boy. That's a _straight_ flush."

Sam groaned as he double-checked Dean's claim. "Oh, fuck you," he said in jest, and flicked a playing card in his brother's direction.

Dean cackled as he deflected. "Ha ha, sucker!" He nodded at the dryer. "Loser gets to fold."

"What? We never said that!"

Dean started collecting the cards. "That's always been the deal, bitch. Don't you remember?"

Sam made a face that turned into a fond smile. "Fine," he gave in – because, yeah, he remembered. "Jerk."

xxx

"You're moving slower than molasses, Francis," Dean griped. "Pick up the pace."

He was hit in the face with a T-shirt as a retort. "Why don't you help me out? This is a huge load."

"Nah, you're just an amateur," Dean said, but he stood up and nudged Sam's shoulder playfully as he joined him at the dryer. "Don't say I never did anything for ya."

They finished folding together.

xxx

Sam managed to fall asleep in the seven-minute car ride from the Laundromat to the drugstore and didn't stir when Dean put the car in park.

Dean knew the kid still had a headache that wouldn't quit – he'd caught Sam rubbing his forehead innumerous times in the past couple of hours. And as Dean looked at him now, he suspected a fever too, because Sam's cheeks were spotty and flushed red.

Dean continued to stare at his brother for a little while longer. It was good to see him sleeping. Made him look younger – more like the Sammy that Dean remembered: the Sammy before Stanford.

But the way that Sam was positioned, with his neck craned at an awkward angle so that he could rest the side of his head against the cold window, made Dean cringe. He was going to have one hell of sore neck if Dean didn't wake him up.

"Hey," Dean said softly. He reached to feel Sam's forehead to confirm what he already knew, then he slid his hand down to his brother's shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. "Sam."

"Hmm?" Sam mumbled without opening his eyes.

"Sit up. Look at me."

Sam opened one bleary eye. "What?"

"You're gonna hurt your neck, sleeping like that. You okay?"

Sam cleared his throat and pushed himself into a more upright position. He ran his hands through his hair. "Yeah. M'good."

Dean snorted skeptically. "Tell that to the fever you're runnin'. I don't get you, man. Why'd you insist on coming to do _laundry_ – of all things – if you're feeling so shitty?"

Sam just shrugged and stared intently out the window at nothing in the drugstore parking lot.

Dean hated the silent brooding. Hated how Sam kept saying he was "good" when he could plainly see otherwise. Hated that Sam seemed insistent on suffering alone. Hated that he wasn't letting Dean in.

A lot had changed in four years.

"Fine," Dean sighed. He kicked open the driver's door. "Stay put. I'll be right back."

xxx

Arriving back at the motel, Dean carried in the bags of clean laundry and the bags from the drugstore, and Sam made a beeline for the table. Or more accurately, his laptop.

Dean, seeing this, dropped the laundry and bags on his bed and rolled his eyes. "Sam, c'mon. What'd I tell you? Stop torturing yourself."

"It's more torture not to check," Sam insisted. "Just give me ten minutes."

Dean sighed. "Fine. Ten minutes. Then bed. I mean it."

It was like he was negotiating with a five-year-old.

"'Kay," Sam agreed absent-mindedly.

Meanwhile, Dean pulled out the plethora of meds and the thermometer he'd purchased at the drugstore, and set them on the table for Sam.

"Here," Dean said, removing the thermometer from the packaging and holding it out to brother. "Let's see how hot you're running."

Sam rolled his eyes, but took the device and held it under his tongue while he scoured the Palo Alto newspapers and sifted through his emails.

Dean popped open a beer and took a seat across from him, waiting. After the required three minutes were up, Dean held out his hand expectantly. Sam didn't even look away from his screen as he handed the thermometer over.

"101.8," Dean read. And when Sam didn't react, he asked, "Are you even hearing me right now?"

Sam raised his eyes to meet Dean's. "Yeah, I hear you," he said. "It's not a big deal. I'm probably just fighting something off."

"Yeah, because your immune system's shot to shit," Dean said, his voice getting louder with each word he spoke. "You haven't been taking care of yourself. You need to eat more, sleep better."

Sam closed his eyes. He had never liked being lectured.

Dean instantly felt guilty for raising his voice. "Look, Sam, I didn't mean—"

"No, I know," Sam interrupted in that wobbly voice that told Dean he was close to breaking. He rested his elbows on the table and let his head drop into his hands. "It's okay."

Dean bit down on his bottom lip. He hated how defeated Sam looked. Posture haggard, hair falling in front of his face. He cleared his throat gruffly and decided to change the subject. "Did you find anything?"

Sam shook his head. His hands were still hiding his face and Dean's stomach sank with the kid's shoulders started to shake.

He was crying.

Fuck.

"Sam, hey," Dean said soothingly. He stood up so he could round the table and crouch down beside his brother.

But Sam turned his head away, embarrassed. "Shit," he whispered through his tears. He used his sleeve to wipe his eyes then started to stand up – to get away – but Dean grabbed his wrist.

"Don't," he said gently, tugging Sam back down. "Talk to me."

Sam let out a shuddering breath, but didn't say anything.

"Sammy, c'mon," Dean tried.

When Sam finally gave in, it was so quiet Dean could barely hear him. "I miss her," he whispered shakily. "I miss her so much."

The admission nearly broke Dean's heart into a million pieces, even more so when Sam turned and let himself fall against his brother's chest. Dean caught him easily and wrapped his arms around Sam's form.

"I know you do, man. I know. Don't get yourself too worked up, okay? Easy, kiddo."

Sam was snuffling against his neck, swallowing hard, trying to keep from losing it entirely. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't be," Dean said firmly. He squeezed Sam a little tighter and rested his chin on top of his shaggy head of hair. "You're not feeling well. I get it." He patted his back. "C'mon, we need to get you in bed."

Sam shook his head adamantly as he pulled away. "Every time I close my eyes, I see her," he said. "And my dreams always turn to nightmares, and I-I… I hate it, Dean. I just want… I just…"

"What, Sammy?"

"I just want it to be better. I wish I could… I don't want to feel like this anymore."

Dean swallowed over the lump in his throat and reached up to close Sam's laptop. "It _will_ get better, man. I promise. You're the toughest person I know. You just need a little more time. And that's okay. It is."

Sam sniffed loudly and wiped his cheeks again. He nodded vaguely, and Dean was glad that he was hearing him.

"All right, Sasquatch," he said, wanting to escape the chick-flick moment that had snuck up on them. He stood up. "Listen, I know you don't want to sleep, but you need to. You gotta kick what you're fighting to the curb before it gets worse. I'll be awake, okay? So if I hear you gettin' restless, I'll wake you up before a nightmare hits. Deal?"

Sam bit down on his lip. He still looked a little unsure, but he agreed. "Deal."

He let Dean help him up and then took a seat on the bed while Dean went to the bathroom and filled a cup with tap water. Then he grabbed the Tylenol and melatonin he'd purchased at the drugstore and returned to the common room.

"It's normal," Sam said when Dean returned. "That's why."

Dean had no idea what he was talking about. He passed the water off to Sam and took a seat across from him on the adjacent bed. "Huh?"

He started to shake out the pills, but stopped when Sam started to elaborate.

"Back at the drugstore... you asked me why I insisted on coming with you today," he said quietly, staring down at the glass of water. "I think I wanted to come because doing laundry is normal. I mean, everybody does laundry, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Dean answered.

"I know it's stupid," Sam continued. "But growing up, I looked forward to laundry days. It was always just you and me, and it was fun. And we were safe and it was normal. I think I craved that."

Dean smiled softly. "Yeah, I know you did."

"Days like that just made me feel better. I think I wanted that today."

"That's not stupid, Sam," Dean said. "Did it work?"

Sam shrugged. "We're not kids anymore."

"Eh, you'll always be a kid to me, Sammy," Dean said, reaching across to ruffle Sam's hair, trying to make light out of the discussion. "C'mon, here." He shook out the Tylenol and handed a couple of tablets to Sam. Then he opened the package of melatonin tablets.

"Sleeping pills?" Sam asked. "Really?"

Dean nodded. "Non-negotiable. You need to start sleepin' for more than an hour at a time."

Sam sighed, but took the pills and swallowed them easily.

"All right, hit the hay, dude. I'm gonna be right here, okay?"

Sam blinked his bleary eyes and nodded.

Dean helped him get under the covers and pulled them up to his chin.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam said when he was settled, looking at his brother with those genuine puppy-dog eyes. "Really. You're… just… thanks."

Dean's heart swelled with warmth at the pure gratitude – but he'd never let Sam know it.

"It's my job, Sam. Don't be such a sap. Go to sleep."

He gave his brother's shoulder a little shove for being such a girl, then flopped down on his own bed, prepared to sit vigil for the remainder of the night.

 **Fin.**


End file.
